Berkeley Square (A Superlock Tale)
by Dudewheresthepie01
Summary: Berkeley Square has been a supernatural site for decades. Sounds like a job for Sam and Dean! But what happens when a curious consulting detective and his blogger step in? Read to find out! (I'm bad at summaries... ")
1. Chapter 1

The sun blossomed across the sky, an enormous yellow rose. London seemed to glow in the morning light as people crowded the streets below. Every street was joyous, peaceful, and filled to the brim with happy thoughts and jubilant laughter. Well, almost every street...

"JOHN!" A baritone voice rang from behind 221B Baker Street's pale black door. "I'M BORED!"

Inside a tall slim man was complaining rather monotonously a top a leathery couch. He had curly black hair, a thin blue robe and a frighteningly slender appearance.

Sitting across from him (and looking quite pissed off) was a blonde man who was trying desperately to read the newspaper.

"Sherlock." He moaned. "You solved a case less then two minutes ago."

"Yes John!" Sherlock hissed. "And NOW I'm BORED again!" He talked as if he was teaching a younger kid how to sing the ABC's.

John rolled his eyes and reluctantly grabbed his laptop. "Time for another pointlessly life-threatening mystery..." John muttered while scrolling through his case-related emails.

Sherlock flashed a pointed grin.

"Ummmm." John began to read the emails aloud. "So there's a girl who's father has been posting on his Face book account even though he's dead..."

"Boring." Sherlock breathed.

"A man murdered in-"

"Boring!" Sherlock moaned.

"A-"

"BORING!"

"I didn't even finish-" John began.

"Oh god!" Sherlock grumbled. "I NEED A CASE!"

John put his laptop down and shrugged his shoulders sympathetically. "You'll just have to wait then."

Sherlock pressed his head into the arm of the couch and began to whine like an injured animal.

"Ummm... Sherlock?" John questioned.

Sherlock moaned louder.

"Okay... Then." John pulled his newspaper up extra high to block the strange scene Sherlock was making. "Crybaby..."

Suddenly something quite unnerving caught Johns eye, it seemed quite normal at first but after living with someone like Sherlock... You notice much more. The paper read:

"MiSsing an Orange tabby naMEd Tiger. He is an Overexcited kitteN with a limp in his right lEg. Please HELP me find him.

Call: 934-222-4335

-llac."

John placed the page down. His face had contorted to that of a puzzled look and he moved to get Sherlock's attention. Before he could move however a hand settled him back down; Sherlock was already hovering over his shoulder. That I-know-exactly-what-you-don't grin that John hated so bloody much, etched across his face.

"That ad." Sherlock pointed at the print John had been struggling over. "Is a cry for help."

John studied Sherlock's proud expression skeptically. "Well yeah..." He muttered quizzically. "They are asking for help to find their pet."

Sherlock's smile turned to a disappointed frown and he turned to meet John's eyes. Sherlock sighed, grabbed the corners of John's newspaper and wrenched it free. Receiving a disapproving stare from John.

"There is a hidden message here." Sherlock stated pointing to the black text that created the ad. "Look. There are different letters that are uppercased where they aren't supposed to be."

John was silently studying the paper with a quizzical expression. Until a small gasp of recognition escaped his lips. "It spells S-O-M-E-O-N-E HELP. Someone help."

Sherlock gazed angrily at John. "I was supposed to reveal the answer." He pouted.

John responded with a silent shake of the head.

Sherlock grabbed the newspaper and began to talk to himself, loud enough so John could hear. "What a strange cry for help... In a newspaper ad... But why? Hmm..." Sherlock placed his hands together and put them to his head. "A prank? No... Too expensive... Risky. Just meant help find the pet? No... Too strange. Actual typos? No... Too coincidental... Too impossible. Hmm. No. Hm. No. No. No. No. NO!" Sherlock pulled his hands angrily to his side and let out a frustrated groan.

"Why don't we call the number?" John suggested kindly.

"This person obviously likes riddles." Sherlock sighed. "It wouldn't be that easy John."

John moaned. "Sherlock it's probably nothing-"

Sherlock cut him off. "John! How does the ad end?"

"How am I supposed to know YOUR'E the one with my newspaper." John grated.

Sherlock tossed the paper at him, eyes staring upwards, mind clearly elsewhere.

John caught the newspaper with a grunt of surprise and turned to the ad. He read the ending word: "llac." He cocked his head. "Llac? Is that a name?"

"No! John!" Sherlock yelled excitedly. "This is much better then a name!"

John squinted skeptically.

"Spell llac backwards!" Sherlock cried happy with his discovery.

"C-a-l-l." John breathed. "Call."

Sherlock stared at him with anxious eyes.

"Don't get it." John sighed.

Sherlock groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Call the number backwards." He breathed frustration clearly etched in his voice as John's eyes widened in realization.

"Call it!" Sherlock snapped impatiently.

"Ok!" John groaned while picking up his phone. "I'm doing it!" John carefully dialed the newly discovered number. "533-422-2439"

The soft buzz that proved the number was calling hummed into John's waiting ear. Sherlock was perched above John, his face was emotionless (as usual) but he was biting his lip gently in suspense.

Just as the phone went into its sixth ring and John was ready to give up, a small encouraging "click!" Proved someone was on the other end.

"Bobby! Thank god! Took you long enough to find out the code..." A rough mature voice rang through the cell phone. It sounded like he was eating something. John didn't have time to respond as the man launched into another conversation. "Did we really have to put the call code in the newspaper? It cost money and took time! Besides why did the code word have to be someone help? Kinda cheesy, Bobby. I mean Sam was careful to make it tough to crack, but anyone could'a called us Bobby!"

John kept his mouth shut suspiciously this man didn't want anyone but this Bobby fellow on the phone with him. Sherlock thankfully got the picture and kept his normally extremely chatty lips sealed.

The man began to speak again as church bells chimed in the distance. "So, this is definitely our kind'a case. 50 Berkeley Square is a reportedly haunted house! We've got ourselves an angry spirit!" The mans strange statement and excitement startled John and he let out a grunt.

Suddenly the line went silent. "You're not Bobby." The mans voice was menacing; he clearly had experience with threatening situations.

John laughed nervously. "Um... Wrong number?"

The man let out a low growl. "You stay out of this. Forget everything I said. Everything I mentioned. If word goes out I will find you and-"

John hung up quickly and nervously turned to Sherlock. "You hear all that?"

Sherlock had moved to the window. He nodded silently.

John and Sherlock sat noiselessly. It wasn't cause they didn't know what to say, it was because Sherlock was lost in thought and John was waiting for his answer.

Sherlock turned to John and opened his mouth. John prepared himself for a long explanation on the mans name, age, clothes, etc. that Sherlock managed to find out from just the tone in his voice or something. But instead Sherlock breathed "Okay John. Where do we go first?"

Didn't see that coming.

John gawked at Sherlock and Sherlock fixed him with a menacing gaze. "The answer is obvious John. I'm not asking you for help, I'm testing to see if you know where we go first."

John breathed a sigh of relief. That was the Sherlock he knew. "50 Berkeley Square." John stated proudly.

"Nope."

"I'm sorry what?"

"I said." Sherlock groaned. "Nope. Try again."

John squinted his eyes shut and thought. "We go... To the..." John sighed in frustration. "Oh bloody hell Sherlock! Where else could we go?"

"The bells, John!" Sherlock graciously gave John a hint. John squinted once again until...

"Ah ha!" John cried feeling quite proud even if he had needed a hint. "We go to the diner right next to Saint Augustin's Church!" John had remembered hearing the distinct gong-like Saint Augustin church bells right before the man had begun to talk about... Ghosts. Also the man had been eating something and the little diner next to the church was the only restaurant in the area. The question was, how did Sherlock hear all those little details when he didn't even have the phone to his ear?

"Sherlock how did you hear-" John began.

Sherlock pointed to his ear and then to his head. "Good hearing. Good mind." He boasted.

"So am I right?" John questioned impatiently.

"Yes, yes." Sherlock didn't sound the least bit impressed as he searched for his scarf. "We leave now."

He threw his coat over his robe and tied his blue scarf around his neck, before scurrying outside.

John followed in reluctant pursuit.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"Damn it!" Dean paced the sidewalk outside the diner he had just ate at. His eyebrows were curled in anger, eyes wide with shock. He had just rambled on to a STRANGER without even CHECKING to see if it was Bobby!

Dean clenched his fists closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to contact Bobby somehow. Dean had insisted that he and Sam go to London in order to investigate the haunting at 50 Berkeley Square. Bobby had agreed but told them to leave him their new number as a code in the London newspaper, page 5. Dean had asked why they couldn't just call Bobby on his cell and Bobby had told him that he was getting a new phone in London as well. Dean had agreed and he and Bobby decided that the code word would be "someone help".

After the arrangements were made Dean had left it to his nerd-of-a-brother Sam, to make the code.

It was supposed to be something only hunters could crack.

Dean stopped pacing across the sidewalk and popped his head into the diner his brother still sat at. Sam had a plate filled with uneaten eggs and cold toast sitting next to the laptop he was poking away at. Dean wouldn't be surprised if Sam hadn't realized he'd left.

"Yo!" Dean called to his little brother. (who wasn't exactly "little" anymore.)

Sam peaked up at Dean from behind his laptop, furrowing his eyebrows and cocking his head. "When'd you get there?" Sam questioned.

Dean walked back to their booth. "If you weren't so enveloped in your research you would have realized I ate my food, received a call from a total stranger, and left the restaurant." Dean sighed.

Sam turned to his cold eggs and toast. "Oops."

Dean scowled and pointed an accusing finger at Sam. "Forget the food, Sammy! Thanks to your stupid simple code a complete stranger knows about Berkeley Square!" Dean knew that it was mainly his fault for not stopping to make sure it was really Bobby on the other end, but (like most siblings) he was willing to let his brother take the blame.

Sam's puzzled gaze switched to an angered, hurt grimace. "That was an awesome code!" Sam protested.

"Yeah, sure." Dean stated using some of that sarcasm he was famous for.

Sam glared at Dean and Dean shot a stare back. Neither blinked, it was as if they were in a staring contest.

Sam broke the silence. "Dean it's you're fault and you know it! You were the one who let the information slip!"

Damn it! Sam caught on... Well what more can you expect from the nerd king over there... Dean scowled and turned his back to Sam. "I'm heading back to the motel." He growled. "When you finish your research and eat your breakfast meet me there."

Sam watched angrily as his brother stormed outside. Dean had no right to be angry with him! It was Deans fault anyhow... Sam slouched further into his seat, dark thoughts clouding his mind as he took a crispy bite of his cold toast.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock and John hopped out of the cab excitedly. Well... Sherlock was excited; John was pissed.

"There it is!" Sherlock grinned and pointed at the nearby cafe. "Café London's Grill." He read off the neon red sign outside.

Sherlock practically pranced inside. He was so happy to have a mystery!

As John and Sherlock entered they quickly scanned the scene. Taking in all the customers Sherlock and John sat down at a booth opposite a very tall shaggy haired man on his laptop.

"So." John inquired. "What now Sherlock?"

"Any names?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yeah..." John racked his brain. "I didn't get the name of the guy talking on the phone, but there was a Bobby and Sam mentioned."

"Then we ask for names." Sherlock stated.

"Sherlock we can't just go up to random people and ask for their names..." John sighed.

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's creepy."

"Then what do you suggest?!"

John and Sherlock began to argue as the man with the laptop stood up to leave. John and Sherlock stopped to watch as slim female waitress stopped him and handed him her number. The man smiled weakly as she pressed for his name. He slipped past her an uneasy look in his eyes and called weakly behind his back: "Sam!"

The woman looked hurt and confused that the man had ran away like that, but John and Sherlock didn't care. They shot upwards and followed Sam as he exited the diner.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Well that was awkward. Sam wasn't a Dean, he preferred not to be looked at in a starved way by a complete stranger especially a stranger that handed you her number and asked for your name.

Sam kept his laptop and his loosely folded papers tucked under his arm and he glanced behind him, beginning to feel uneasy. To men, one short, one tall (neither as talk as him) followed him closely.

Sam watched nervously as they sent glances and whispers his way until they realized he was looking their way and they both stopped walking. Sam averted his gaze and began speed walking towards the motel.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John watched angrily as the man walked nervously away his speed increasing. He could just be a guy with the name Sam.

Suddenly, a paper flew out from under the mans arm and Sherlock caught it. John and Sherlock read the title out loud in unison. "50 Berkeley Square..."

They exchanged glances and sprinted after Sam.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Sam froze in horror as he realized one of his papers had flown into the waiting arms of his followers. He stood in shock as their eyes scanned the contents and widened in realization. They looked towards him and his hunter instincts kicked in. He ran.

Sam grasped the rest of his papers and his laptop and pressed them against his chest. His long legs spun forwards in a blur like the spokes of a spinning bicycle wheel as he pelted through an abandoned alleyway.

Sam checked behind him and to his horror the two men rounded the nearby corner. Their expressions didn't seem threatening... But looks can be deceiving! For all Sam knew, they could be bloodthirsty demons.

Sam kept dashing north and groaned to himself as a incredibly large gate pinned him in between his followers and the large barred wall.

Sam picked up speed and he climbed the first to rungs with one hand (the other was to busy trying not to drop his computer) then he lifted his feet off the support and flew into the air. He flipped the laptop over the gate and fell down after it, letting his papers fly in all directions. Sam grasped the laptop in mid-air and landed over the side with a pained grunt. He recovered quickly and sped off, chuckling lightly as his stalkers stood gaping behind the metal bars.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John and Sherlock nearly collided with the awaiting gate as their target danced expertly over it. They watched in awe as the extremely tall man landed with a grunt and continued running.

They had lost him.

"Oh great." John sighed as he broke from his trance. "Now what?"

Sherlock faced John with a smug grin on his face. "That man was clearly trained, an expert to be exact." Sherlock muttered under his breath. Meant for his ears only or Johns as well was unclear as he rambled on. "He was clearly alarmed once he realized we were merely walking in his direction and on top of that, he scaled a 15 foot fence..." Sherlock trailed off placing his pressed together hands beneath his chin.

"Come John." Sherlock motioned for John to follow with a swipe of his hand.

"Where to?" John questioned while trotting beside his companion.

"Where?" Sherlock repeated. "50 Berkeley Square, is where."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Sam burst through the motel room door and shut it with a slam. He threw his laptop across his neatly folded blanket that covered his bed and pressed his back against the door, panting all the while. Sam had run the entire distance non-stop in fear of getting caught by the followers that now (thanks to him dropping the papers) knew where Dean and him were going!

Only until after a few breath regaining minutes did Sam realize Dean was staring at him from across the room. A mixture of confusion and worry etched into his gaze.

"Uh-" Sam held his breath. "I just... Ran into a little trouble..."

Dean sighed angrily and practically growled, "Ok. What happened?"

Sam sat down as he launched into an explanation. "I was followed out the cafe by a tall curly haired man and a shorter blonde man wearing a striped sweater."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "They do NOT sound menacing."

"They chased me, Dean!" Sam argued.

"Like we HAVEN'T have been chased before!" Dean sung out sarcastically.

"Wow." Sam said flatly. "I thought you were supposed to be my awesome overprotective big brother."

"Am too." Dean cried.

"Am not." Sam responded.

"Am too!"

"Am not!"

"Am too!"

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam picked up his laptop and waltzed towards the bathroom. His face was caked in sweat and dust from the earlier chase and all he wanted was a refreshing shower. He placed the computer on a nearby nightstand and slipped silently into the awaiting room.

Dean watched his Bitch-of-a-brother disappear behind the wooden door and slumped across his bed. It was then that he noticed Sam's lack of papers.

"Sam!" Dean ran full speed at the bathroom door and pounded frantically against it. "Sam! Listen to me!"

Sam's grunt of shock and surprise turned to that of anger. "Dude! You pervert! I'm taking a shower!"

"I know, I know." Dean shouted through the locked door. "But I have an important question!"

"Yeah well, you're gonna have to ask me later." Sam's muffled response came through the wood and it sounded much like Sam had pressed cotton to his mouth. Dean was about to answer when the tell tale sound of running water proved that the shower had started.

"SAM!" Dean cried. "THE PAPERS! WHERE ARE THE PAPERS?!"

Sam couldn't hear him, or at least if Sam had, he paid no mind.

Dean stormed back to Sam's laptop and flicked it open. The screen buzzed and flickered once before resuming the work Sam had toiled over minutes before. Like a neon red restaurant sign the words "BERKELEY" flashed in front of Dean. Below Sam had typed the entire story of the haunted house word for word. Dean closed his eyes and took a long slow deep breath. Sure having a brother do all the work for you is great but, couldn't Sam at least try to act a little more... Winchester. Dean grabbed the heated sides of Sam's computer and began to read the story of 50 Berkeley Square:

"The old house was built in 1634 by Arnold Hinn. Arnold had a wife, Patricia Hinn, and two children, Abigail Hinn and Danny Hinn. Their caring parents pampered Abigail and Danny. They had an excessive amount of dolls and wooden toys and only ate their favorite meals. Their parents were mysteriously rich, but of course the two content siblings were to innocent to take notice; the towns people however, took note. Some of the townsfolk argued that the Hinns had to be cursed, that Mrs. Hinn was a witch. They believed she used black magic to earn their keep. Mrs. Hinn was dragged away the night before Abigail's birthday and hanged. After her death proved she was innocent and nothing like a witch, the townsfolk dispersed with as little as a shrug of misjudgment. The next morning Mr. Hinn, Abigail, and Danny awoke to their mothers death; Abigail's birthday forgotten, the family began to rot from the inside. Mr. Hinn was overcome with rage and the sickening want for revenge, Danny had shut down and longed for emotion, and little Abigail had succumbed to mighty grief and suicidal thoughts. The first to pass was Mr. Hinn, he had taken all his children's hand carved toys and turned them into 50 wooden stakes; he was so blinded that he was determined to kill as many townspeople as he could. After wiping away at the small towns population single-handedly Mr. Hinn settled down with his children and was happy for a few beautiful days until grief and loneliness clouded his mind once again. Suicide followed. Danny and Abigail were left alone, and Danny began cutting his wrists behind his sisters back. The emotion of sweet pain flooded his senses like rich chocolates. Soon the pain became so addictive he did more and more cutting everyday before bleeding out in Abigail's arms. Abigail was now enveloped in hate, rage, loneliness, grief, and pain. Suicide followed."

Deans face contorted to that of sympathy and horror as he began to read the notes Sam had handwritten on post-its below:

"Abigail kills trespassers? Patricia? Arnold? Danny? All of them are killers? Kidnaps trespassers? Renee Rodriguez disappeared (2006) last seen 50 Berkeley Square. Andrew Scott disappeared (1953) last seen 50 Berkeley Square. Sally O'Neil disappeared (1999) last seen 50 Berkeley Square. Robert Shwarts disappeared (last Friday) last seen 50 Berkeley Square."

Dean closed the informative laptop and slouched further into his seat. The story Sam had recorded was puzzling, why were the Hinns so rich? Who was the kidnapper (possible killer) that had taken all those poor people? Why had the disappearances started now? Dean racked his expertly trained brain and searched for answers. After receiving nothing he realized once again that's Sam's job.

Dean slipped from his seat and hobbled to his bed, head resting defeatedly against his chest. Dean fell face first into his pillow and sighed contentedly. Dean barely registered Sam's exit from the bathroom and kept his lazy eyelids half open as Sam jumped into the bed beside him.

"Serves you right." Sam scolded. "Stop going to bars every night! You're killing yourself! You realize it's only 1:00 pm and you're dead tired right Dean?"

"Shut up, mom." Dean grumbled half-heartedly.

Sam sighed. "What'd you wanna ask me?"

Dean grunted, He'd forgotten. Whatever; It probably wasn't even important. Dean slipped into unconsciousness leaving his brothers question rudely unanswered.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John and Sherlock hopped out of their shadowy-black cab. Sherlock slipped ahead before John could reason that it was his turn to pay the cabbie; he had more pressing matters then a needy cab driver. Sherlock scanned the area.

Old. Five, maybe four actual residents. Beat up roads, clearly uncared for, and fly infested street lamps. A central plaza. Ten houses surrounding center patio. Back and front yards. First two occupied; which he noted because of the blazing lights and tended, albeit poorly lawns. The- Sherlocks deductions were cut short as John grunted beside him.

"It was your turn to pay..." He mumbled.

Sherlock shrugged a pointed grin plastered across his face.

John and Sherlock walked side by side through the empty streets, although a few cats prowled here and there. The click and bumps of Sherlock and Johns shoes reverberated in unison and a few of the occupied homes pulled down their shades in order to get a better look at the strange men walking their roads.

As John muttered the numbers of homes they passed under his breath he stopped and almost yelled, "50."

Sherlock paused and flicked the corners of his coat to the side. His wavy black hair curled deeper as the wind combed across his head. Dust swirled like dancing figures as the two curious men approached Berkeley Square's most odd-looking house.

They rapped on the assumed unoccupied home door and called a "Hello!" As they waited for an unlikely answer heads that stood watching disappeared suspiciously into the shadows. Sherlock nodded the "ok" once he and John realized no force was going to open this door from the inside. John reared back and kicked the old wooden obstacle that blocked their pass with such force that a loud "CRACK" echoed across the streets. The door gave way with a sickening thud, and landed haphazardly across the dusty floorboards that littered the dark interior of 50 Berkeley Square.

John and Sherlock entered the dusty building. They stepped cautiously over debris trying to keep one eye on the floor to avoid tripping, and the other on the ceiling in fear off the rickety shackles giving way.

Slivers of light twisted through multiple small cracks that lined the walls, while dust turned the houses rotten decorations a pale brown.

"Good kick." Sherlock muttered to John his eyes scanning the walls for anything strange.

"Thanks." John replied not really aware of the conversation for his eyes were elsewhere, much like Sherlock's.

"Although next time don't let the whole neighborhood know we're breaking in, please." Sherlock added.

John inwardly groaned. Was it so hard for Sherlock to compliment someone other then himself? "Ever try quietly kicking down a rotted door?" John replied. "I'm sure you'll find it's quite loud!"

Sherlock smiled.

After hours of aimless search their quest for anything out of the ordinary proved pointless and John and Sherlock felt heavy with disappointment. They trudged towards the exit and hopped over the obstacles that lined the floor with much less gusto then when they had arrived.

The wind swirled above the sky and whipped Sherlocks coat to-and-fro. The air had a crisp, dry tang and the townsfolk that had scanned the streets had long since dispersed. Not a soul was near, other then John and Sherlock of course.

"Strange." John whispered to Sherlock as they walked towards the road that held their one chance of a getaway.

"Strange indeed." Sherlock breathed glaring across rickety old fences for signs of life.

There was a "BAM!" And a "CRASH!" And suddenly Sherlock and Johns sullen exit became quite exciting. John and Sherlock whipped around the bam had come from the left and the crash, the right.

"Let's split up." Sherlock decided numbly. "We will cover more ground." Sherlock turned and looked at John once more. "Scream if you need help." He added quickly.

"Real comforting." John replied, sarcasm evident in his tone.

They both spun in opposite directions as if shunning one another after a particularly bad quarrel.

Sherlock had decided to follow the crashing sound he had heard which had come from the right, leaving John to the left. "Right is less boring then left," he had said.

Sherlock trudged on. He peaked quietly over his shoulder once or twice to make sure Johns slowly receding figure was doing alright. His cape-like coat whipped the space behind him like fire hungrily licking the refreshing air around it as Sherlock trotted through the mighty winds. He scanned the ground for the culprit of the crash he had heard. There was nothing but lone specks of dust that decorated the side walks and turned them an arid gray.

Suddenly Sherlock spotted a cluttered mess of broken pottery that lay strewn like litter across the ground. He sighed in disappointment realizing the exciting noise he had heard was merely a dropped flowerpot.

Sherlock was about to return to John when two sounds made him choke on his own breath and froze his heart. He heard a gunshot and John cry out.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello everyone! Dudewheresthepie here! Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been having writers block and just plain old creativity loss ;-; I'm also sorry cause I feel like the writing could have been better here but I just can't write good lately! ALSO, I finished Supernatural on Netflix and that made me sad ;-; BUT ANYWAY! Thank you to the first three reviews I got! They meant SO SO SO MUCH to me! They were my first FF reviews ever ^u^ So thank you guys you are awesome! I hope this chapter meets your expectations! Please review!

Sorry it's not as long as the last chapter but I think my chapters are gonna be a bit shorter from now on :3

(Forgot this last time ;-;) Disclaimer:

I DO NOT OWN SUPERNATURAL OR SHERLOCK! Sadly...

Enjoy:

CHAPTER 2

Sam watched the wall absent-mindedly as Dean snored away limbs dangling off his blankets like a group of thin pale waterfalls. Sam's thoughts drifted this way and that, he was almost positive a witch was involved in this hunt but her kidnapping was so random, it didn't make sense.

Sam shifted his weight on the lumpy bed. The cheap, motel provided mattresses were stuffed with pointy springs that dug into your back and were spotted with tiny lumps that looked like white anthills. He sat up straight and placed his head carefully a top his cupped palms, letting his mind wander once again.

There was something... Off about the story he had researched. Something important that he had missed.

If it was a witch, were there hex bags? There had to be right?

"Think, Sam!" He scolded himself under his breath.

Ah ha! The reason Patricia was hanged, is a good place to start! She was accused of witchcraft because the family was extremely wealthy and they were never caught stealing or working.

Sam rocked back and forth sending the springs beneath him into a cacophony of loud squeals.

Seemed like a stupid reason to accuse someone of witchcraft... But then again people weren't the brightest back then. What if...

Sam sat up straight his limbs tense and excited. An idea had struck him, a perfectly plausible idea!

"Dean! DEAN!" Sam grabbed his brothers limp shoulder and shook him mercilessly. "Dude! Wake up!"

Dean moaned and turned further onto his stomach. He clutched his pillow and pressed his face down hard. Sam grabbed Dean's wrist and dragged him upwards.

Facing Dean's pissed and drowsy features Sam launched into conversation. "Dean we have to investigate Berkley Square! No more dragging it out! I have a theory but I need to test it."

Sam nudged Dean towards the door. Dean however, smacked Sam's hand away. "Dude! I gotta get changed first"

Sam inwardly groaned. "Ok fine," he mumbled, "but hurry up!"

Dean stumbled into the bathroom with his clothes for the day slung haphazardly over his shoulder. He teetered before slamming the door behind him.

Sam paced back and forth, over and over like a broken wind-up toy. His mind was twirling and dancing filled with theories and ideas about Berkeley. He quickly sat down because his little laps had begun to leave stains and scrapes in the floor. Sam knew his theory was a rough guess but like when answering a multiple choice question that you don't know the answer to, you just got to estimate.

The sound of the bathroom door unlocking shoved Sam to his feet and into conversation. "Dean!" Sam grabbed the now wide awake Dean by the shoulders and pushed him towards the door, "Let's go!"

Dean brushed Sam's hand off as if it were merely lint on a leather jacket. "Dude. Calm down." Dean scolded while pulling the door open and sending light crashing through. He lifted his car keys from his pocket and whistled Metallica while strolling forwards.

Sam followed light-footed and anxious behind Dean, he was annoyed by the slow pace but didn't want to get Dean in another one of his moods by yelling at him. They both entered the car that they loved so much, their only true home, and sat down. Sam snuggled into his seat, Dean turned on the music, and they both hummed along to Hells Bells as if they were performing a daily business routine.

The car kick started and soon enough the impala was on the road.

"Sam." Dean started after a few minutes of relaxing quiet.

"Mm?" Sam mumbled.

"So what's this theory you're so worked up about?" Asked Dean.

"Well... I don't know if it's true or plausible..." Sam stuttered.

"So... What is it?" Dean countered.

"...Or if it could've happened so long ago..."

"Sam answer the god damn question! You sound like a friggin politic..."

"Ok! Ok." Sam stated. "Well you know how the townsfolk accused Patricia Hinn of being a witch?"

"Yeah."

"Well." Sam continued, "what if she was?"

"Dude. You're not makin' any sense. She died right? One thing we know about witches is they wouldn't let a bunch of mortals kill 'em. So not a witch, end of story." Dean scoffed.

"Humph." Sam puffed angrily, "we'll see about that!"

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"John!" Sherlock repeated his flat mates name over and over. "JOHN!"

There was no response.

Sherlock had scanned the area multiple times. Here, no, maybe there! John! John! JOHN!

"Slow down..." Sherlock commanded his own thoughts out loud. "Having a wild mind palace isn't going to help..."

But Sherlock couldn't help it. His mind palace was writhing and thrashing in his skull, it's walls crumbling due to the sudden force. John. HIS John. Was gone. Injured possibly, and Sherlock couldn't rest until he heard John's grunts of annoyance when Sherlock show boated or his gasps of amazement when Sherlock quickly deduced a trivial question once again.

But Sherlock pushed all his worry to the corners of his mind. He was Sherlock and he didn't care about such petty things...

"Ok, so... There's no blood. That's good. Actually there's no traces of John at all. That's not good." Sherlock muttered to himself, "Berkeley Square... The backstory of this strange place must have to do with Johns disappearance!" The absurdly rude detective instincts kicked back into to Sherlocks system and pumped through his blood vigorously.

"Yes, yes! That man on the phone will know about Johns kidnapper!.. Assuming he was kidnapped." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "Ah ha! I can find the mysterious man on the phone and-..." Sherlock trailed off. What was he thinking? Getting help from the insane? No way. That man was a new species of crazy, talking about ghosts and hauntings. Pfft. Ghosts. Yeah right.

"Ok new plan!" Sherlock announced airily to himself. "Look for more clues..."

Sherlock stood up straighter and scanned the empty town before returning to a slumped position with a sigh. What exactly could give him clues about John?

Sherlock vigorously deduced the objects around him hoping to find an answer to Johns vanishing act. The newspaper crumpled by his shoes, fifty one years old, printed with haste. Written by an old scholar, two kids no wife. Ink from India- no Brazil?...

"What does it MATTER!?" Sherlock screeched and grabbed at his hair. A newspaper wasn't going to bring John back, it was a stupid newspaper that got them in this mess in the first place! Sherlock grabbed the old parchment and ripped it to shreds with as much gusto that a child would possess when digging into a wrapped Christmas gift.

"Creak..."

Sherlock dropped the paper and perked his ears. What was that?

"Creeeaaak." A quiet, thick screech came from the nearby destroyed houses. Was it the wind? Or was it just what Sherlock was looking for?

"John!" Sherlock whispered as loud as he dared. No response.

Sherlock got on his knees and moved gingerly towards the noise like a toddler almost at the walking stage. He grasped a rock within arms reach and armed himself.

There. An outline of a head shone through the window casting a suspicious shadow that sent excitement coursing up Sherlocks spine like ice. It certainly wasn't John, far to tall. This could be Johns kidnapper!

Sherlock watched as the man circled round the house and out the door muttering inaudible sentences with a fierce expression that painted his face red. His hair was slightly tufted and was a light-dark brown color. He wore a beaten up leather jacket with a plaid shirt underneath and he had boot leg jeans to cover his lower half. He looked menacing enough to be a kidnapper. But Sherlock could tell he had just recently left a motel, No place to hide a body. Sherlock could also tell he took a fancy to alcohol, women, and had a sibling. Also the man (obviously judging by his fingers) knew how to work a gun.

Actually... Maybe this man had hurt John.

Sherlock felt something push through his veins like medicine being squeezed out of a syringe. With a jerk his fists clenched tighter and he gripped the rock he held with surprising force. Sherlock didn't know what this feeling was. It wasn't rage, because he was Sherlock. He didn't "feel" emotions for anyone... Even John. Yes. Not rage. Of course.

The man turned towards Sherlock and squinted through the shadows.

With a quick jump and a spider-like crawl backwards Sherlock returned to a safer, more secluded position.

The man had begun to strut closer... And closer...

Sherlock aimed his rock at the man's head. Judging by the rugged appearance this man shone, Sherlock knew one rock wasn't going to take him out. So he threw it in the opposite direction.

"Bang!- Crash- pit..." The stone had landed right on target. Knocking a garbage can right off its feet and creating a loud enough diversion.

"SonofaBitch!" The man breathed as if cussing was a second language to him and he turned to check on the culprit of the noise.

Sherlock watched him leave and dusted his coat off gently before returning to a standing stance. He didn't want to let the man get away, but it was clear that man was trained in almost every essential fighting tactic. He was most likely trained by a drill Sargent or a Commanding officer. It could have been his father... But Sherlock assumed from the looks of this man it was someone of greater authority.

Never mind that. Sherlock had better things to worry about.

Sherlock crawled, ducked, and maneuvered his way after the man. Quickly jumping behind a fallen building whenever the suspicious character happened to turn around or dodging broken glass and shattered pottery in hopes of not creating an alarming noise. Sherlocks feet were beginning to grow tired.

Soon the man stopped at an abandoned gravesite. Most likely the burial grounds of the people who once roamed these streets. It was an extremely small graveyard...

"Here we go." The man muttered away searching through the faded names of the deceased, "Patricia Hinn."

Sherlock scanned the writing that decorated the tomb from behind the mans shoulder. "PATRICIA." It read, "FALSELY ACCUSED OF WITCHCRAFT."

Interesting.

Sherlock tried to read further but the man's muscular torso shielded his view. Like a cat stalking a mouse Sherlock slunk forwards and dove this way and that trying to get a closer look at the tomb. But as soon as Sherlock saw what the man was doing, the gravestone didn't matter much anymore.

The man pulled out a shovel stained with week old blood and dusted with a thick haze of dirt. Almost as quickly as the shovel was whipped out, it was shoved underground, smack where the bones of Patricia should be resting.

Grave robber? Sherlock questioned thoughtfully as the man ripped away at the soil in front of him.

But no. The man had no intention to rob at all. Instead as soon as the skeletal remains of poor Patricia were revealed, the man whipped out a lighter and quickly flicked open the cap as if he were merely lighting a birthday cake.

The mans short hair glistened with sweat and his knuckles were a mixture of white and red as he pulled out lighter fluid to go along with his fire. He poured the fluid over the bones that were caked in dirt and lit a small match.

Sherlock watched in awe as he cremated the ancient Patricia with a simple smile. The flames thirstily slurped at the air around them and belched cracks and creaks out of its fumes. It slowly ate away at the last remaining proof that Patricia had ever walked this earth until there was nothing left to be seen.

Sherlock was left dumbfounded. This mystery was getting better and better!

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Sam sighed.

Leave it to Dean to make his brother, (who was MOST excited about this hunt!) in charge of watching the impala. Normally they would go together but Dean was afraid of anybody hurting his baby. It _was _a shady looking area. Besides, Dean had told Sam, I'll only be a couple minutes.

Dean had left earlier to take care of Patricia's bones. "Roast 'em till they were nothing but the useless pile of remains they were meant to be." Dean had said.

Sam the kicked dirt beneath his feet curtly and quickly sending puffs of pale brown smoke into the air. Berkeley was a mess. With barely any grass just simple dirt to coat the ground and ugly eroded piles of muck that Sam assumed used to be considered houses. It stank too.

Sam whistled Carry on my Wayward Son to himself while rocking himself on Deans "baby." He knew Dean HATED it when Sam (or anybody) leaned on the impala but since Sam was still miffed about Deans cruel decision to leave Sam behind he pressed his entire torso roughly against the cars side. Take that Dean.

Huh?! Sam pushed himself off the impala and within seconds was alert and reaching for his gun that was strapped across his jeans. He could've sworn he heard a plea for help.

"Hhellp..." A slurred, muffled cry came from a destroyed home that lay abandoned and crumbling. It looked as if a dinosaur had sat directly on top of it.

Sam rushed towards the distress call, climbing over rubble and nearly tripping over a few stray rocks. "I'm coming!" He yelled assuredly.

"Help!" The person clearly had heard Sam and their screams filled with relief and strength. "Help!"

Sam started pulling at an old piece of wood. He could see blood and hair underneath it and once again heard a "help!" From below.

However it was one of the houses main supporting beams and it weighed an impossible amount. He gripped it firmly and yanked with all his might but nothing budged. "Hold on!" Sam cried.

"Help... Please." It was a woman Sam could tell, repeated again.

"I'm... Trying...!" Sam gasped, his hands still scrambling for purchase on the strong piece of wood. He pulled out his gun. "Don't be alarmed!" He assured the woman, "I'm just trying to make things easier!" Sam scurried to the middle of the beam and pressed his fingertips underneath, making sure the girl wasn't directly below this section of the plank. His fingers couldn't find flesh so he announced this area safe. He cocked his gun and loaded it with a swift "click." Sam aimed at the middle.

"BANG!" Part of the already rotting wood splintered to bits as a bullet entered its side with surprising force. Sam could hear muffled screams of terror coming from the poor woman but he has to get her out and this was the only way. "BANG!" Again wood showered around Sam like confetti.

"BANG! BANG! BA-CRACK!" With one last thundering shot the beam split in two and the woman's legs became visible. They seemed fine other then a few cuts and bruises, nothing broken. Sam tucked his gun away and tried to quiet the ladies cries, "Hey, hey!" He soothed, "it's okay now! I just had to use my gun to break the wood that was pinning you!" The screams quieted to shuddering breaths mixed with sobs.

"You-you're CRAZY!" She choked out as Sam gripped the beam once again.

"Yeah," Sam grunted, "I get that a lot!" Sam yelled as he slowly pried the plank off the woman's body. "Hhhgn..." He gently lifted the wood over the ladies back, careful not to hurt the spine and flipped it over her torso. With an earth quaking "THUD" the beam was out of range and Sam quickly turned to check the ladies wounds.

Except there was no lady.

She was gone.

Sam stared at where she lay sobbing and bleeding a few seconds ago and whipped out his gun. "Hello!?"

The air grew cold and Sam hoped Dean would come back quickly.

"Thank you." It was barely a whisper but Sam knew he heard it. "Thank you so much." Sam shook his head there it was again. Someone was thanking him, and that someone sounded a lot like the woman he just saved...

That someone just tapped him on the shoulder... Sam spun around gun still trained on the spot in front of him. He was face to face with the woman who lay battered beneath the beam a few moments ago.

"Woah-" Sam stuttered, she was beautiful. Plus, all her injuries were gone. She was gorgeous. Amazing.

"Put down your gun, sweetheart." She sung out.

Sam dropped the gun almost instantly. Her voice was like diamonds sparkling and wonderful but sharp and strong.

"What's your name?" Sam drooled out the question.

"Patricia Hinn, baby." She stroked Sam's cheek.

"What a great name." Sam muttered.


End file.
